


Little Miss Glowstick

by Little_Miss_Me



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Bay Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Human Experimentation, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, and 100 percent self-indulgent, no y/n, this is 50 percent found family 50 percent give donnie smooches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25010044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Miss_Me/pseuds/Little_Miss_Me
Summary: You’re pretty sure you’ve been doing this for a while. It’s certainly been longer than weeks, and it feels like years, but everything feels like years when you’ve been drugged so often you’ve forgotten your own name, so you compromise with yourself and call it a few months. At the very least, if there was anyone in your life to file police reports about your disappearance, they’ve probably moved on by now. Maybe you’ll appear in one of those Best of Unsolved Cases TV shows.Regardless of the exact timeline specifics, the routine never changes: they wake you up every once in a while, inject you with some science-y goop, throw you in the containment chamber to scare you a bit, then get mad when whatever they want to happen doesn’t.If you thought they’d take it well, you’d tell them it might be time to give up. Then again, your life might end along with the experiment’s termination, so it looks like the ol’ ‘keeping your mouth shut’ strategy is going to have to suffice.You don’t know what they want to happen, but you get the feeling that, when it does, there will be hell to pay.(You’re right, in a sense, just... not in a way you were expecting.)
Relationships: Donatello (TMNT)/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	Little Miss Glowstick

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched TMNT 2014 recently and was like, I COULD work on my final thesis novel over the summer, OR I could write a novel length reader insert TMNT fic, and I'll give you three guesses which one won.
> 
> Warning for human experimentation and basically torture in the first chapter. No blood or gore, and reader's okay afterwards (minus the trauma, which we'll get to later), but she does goes through a rough time.

You are around 96.5 % certain that you had a name before this mess. You are certain of this because you know, realistically speaking, people had to call you _something_. What that name _was_ , however, is anyone’s guess.

Well, the people injecting you with drugs on a regular basis could _maybe_ tell you if _particularly_ pressed, but most of them seem uninterested (at best) in calling you anything other than patient 124. You’re still a little upset you were one patient past being called 123.

Then again, you're not entirely certain 123 is still in this world, literally _or_ figuratively, so maybe you lucked out.

Silver linings, right?

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of shoes hitting concrete, several soldiers marching into the makeshift prison they have created for the test subjects. The prisoner in the cell across from you recoils from the sound, crawling back to the farthest corner and curling up when their feet stop in front of both of you. You stare at the shoes, pitch black combat boots, one of which is stained with a mysterious substance you suspect to be blood. Be it from cleaning up a failed ‘experiment,’ or just a patrol gone bad, you couldn’t guess. He could have been more thorough with his cleaning, however.

“124!” One of the guards calls, giving your cell door a single bang with his gun, “they got the next dose for ‘ya.” You hesitate for a moment, but another glance at the bloody shoe has you rising, head down; pick your battles, and all that.

They march you through the dark halls of the compound, their footfalls echoing. Your hands are no longer tied for these little marches, as you stopped resisting months ago. You prefer the illusion of freedom, and it gives you a sense of control to at least have your hands in the containment chamber.

By the time you reach the usual lab, your heart is thudding, your palms are sweaty, and it takes all your effort to control your breathing. A lesson you have learned the hard way: nothing good comes from panicking. They open the door, and there’s your chair, complete with the straps under the arms and legs. The woman in the lab coat with the deceptively kind smile is already waiting beside it, eyes boring holes into you from behind her safety goggles.

“Just put her here,” the woman says, tapping the chair. The guards get you set up, strapping in your hands and feet, as if you still had any illusions of being able to escape to act on. Once done, they move to the door, guns in their hands, in standby position.

“Now,” the woman says brightly, “I’m excited to show you this cocktail, I think we really may have gotten it this time!” _Here’s to hoping._ “Now hold still, this will hurt, as usual.” She injects you with a needle filled with violet liquid, and immediately your veins are on fire. You clench your teeth, determine not to scream this time; you make it about two thirds of the way through before you can’t hold it anymore, which, as far as you’re concerned, is pretty impressive.

After a short eternity, once the pain has migrated from your arm to the entirety of your body and back again, all your veins glow with a faint purple light, and you slump over as the burn begins to lessen.

“There you go,” the woman coos, “not so bad, is it?” You glare up at her as you pant, but you do not have the energy to grind out a _why don’t you see for yourself?_

The woman rises, motioning for the guards to unstrap you, who yank you to your feet when you take too long to catch your bearings. They march you to the clear chamber off to your right, which is connected to a motherboard filled with dials and lights. You managed to get your feet under you before they throw you in, so you don’t land on your hands and knees. The door to the chamber hisses shut, and you turn to see the woman giving you a smile.

“Let’s see what will get your heart racing today, hmm?” She says, and you glare; if you ever get the chance, you’ll rip those shiny teeth out with a plier one by one. The chamber turns opaque suddenly, then pitch black, and they begin.

#

It’s a short eternity later when they drag you out of the simulation room. You’re quaking all over, dizzy and more than slightly nauseous, and the small victory of yet again not giving them what they want rings hollow in comparison to the pain licking at your no longer illuminated veins.

The scientist’s prize-winning smile has been replaced by an equally prize-winning frown, mumbling to herself as your guards drag your jelly limbs back into the chair.

“What is it _missing_?” She hisses out, all but stabbing her clipboard with her ballpoint pen. “No, no, no, _no_!” With each ‘no’ she crosses something off, until she gets to the end of the page and gives a snarl. She chucks the clipboard across the room, where it slams into the viewing window, spidering the glass. Without anything in her hands to occupy her, she turns to you.

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” She snaps, pacing up to you and getting in your face. You glare at all three of her as they dance in your vision, opening and closing your mouth.

Her patience does not appear to last long, because she promptly throws her hands up and turns back around. She paces for a while, muttering to herself, ignoring both you and your guards. After a couple minutes, she turns to face you again.

“You’re lucky you’ve proven resistant to the neurotoxins,” the woman snarls, “we’d have found a new test subject long ago otherwise.” She turns back around to retrieve her clipboard. “Take her back, I’ve got work to do.”

The guards yank you up. You groan, nausea finally getting the better of you, and proceed to spill your guts on the floor; not that there was much in you in the first place.

“And clean that up!” The woman snaps.

#

“This time,” the woman says, eyes brighter than ever before, “this time we may have it!” She clicks over in her high heels, syringe in hand, and you look up at the ceiling in an attempt to disassociate; you haven’t had much luck so far.

Liquid fire is still burning in your veins, the woman’s humming of an idle tune a grating accompaniment to the throbbing in your head, when the alarms began to blare. She starts, looking around, and there is the distinct sound of your guards’ guns being taken off safety.

“What’s going on?” She snaps, looking to them both. They turn their heads in what might be a glance at one another, but neither says anything. Instead one moves to unstrap you from the chair while another snatches a file drive from her desk and slams it into the nearby computer, typing something. By the time you’re untied there’s a beeping sound, in the file drive is yanked back out.

“I said _what is going on?_ ” She shouts, but she is once again ignored. You try to get your legs under you as they begin to drag you from the room, but they continue, rather stubbornly, you might add, to pretend they are jelly.

You light up the darkened hallway with a purple glow, veins pulsing a steady violet along with the rhythm of your heart, as you’re rushed past dozens of identical men in masks, all of whom go the opposite way.

Your guards do not seem particularly concerned they are going in what seems to be the wrong direction, keeping their brisk pace, one which only accelerates once they realize you are finally able to walk on your own two feet.

At long last you arrive at a door, which opens to a large garage. Inside people are racing about, each frantically carrying out a job, and the cumulative noise of hundreds of boots slapping concrete makes your head pound. Your taken down, down, down the runway, all the way to a lone woman, one of the only people not wearing a mask. She looks you up and down once they drag you over, eyes sharp and calculating. You decide the only thing you respect about her is her on-point wing.

“This is the test subject?” She asks, eyes shifting to one of your guards.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, handing her the file drive, and she gives a quick nod.

“Put her in the van,” she says, “secure the rest of the test subjects, we must abandon this facility.” Both your guards nod, walking you over to a nearby pitch-black van and shoving you inside. There is another masked man in the driver’s seat, and the new woman quickly take shotgun. You scramble to the back windows, watching your guards turn and sprint back the way they came.

The van starts, beginning to head towards one of the garage openings, when all the lights in the facility shut off. There is a short, tense silence in the van, before the woman swears in another language.

“They cut the power,” she hisses, “we won’t be able to delete all the files remotely!” She is silent for a moment, before she curses again and shakes her head. “There is no time,” she says, “just drive.” The man in the driver seat nods, taking off in a squeal of rubber. You slump in the back, the hope you didn’t realize you had of rescue going out like a light.

It is just as dark outside as inside, the black of the night illuminated only by the purple glow of your veins. You wonder, with an absent sort of curiosity, what the outside world smells like. Instead you settle for staring out the back window, pushing at doors in a Hail Mary attempt to see if they are unlocked. You’re unsurprised to find they are not, and with a sigh you settle in.

For a while there is nothing, the van shrouded intense silence, the outside world passing by, when you notice it. An unusually large vehicle speeds towards the van, and you press your face up against the glass as you notice it coming closer. You glance over at the bars which separate you from the front of the van, but neither the driver nor the woman seem to have noticed; perhaps they are already aware of its presence and unbothered. You can’t say a large vehicle speeding towards you would leave you unconcerned, but you suppose you’re not exactly privy to all the resources at the organization’s disposal; perhaps unusually large vehicles are just part of their arsenal.

You are abruptly proven wrong when something large and circular shoots out from the front of the vehicle, impaling itself in the van doors. The impact throws you back, slamming you up against the wall dividing you from the front.

The driver swerves, then proceeds to over correct, causing you to tumble back the way you came.

“They must have split up,” the woman says, “we won’t outrun them, try to lose them in the back alleys!” The guard makes an abrupt turn, the momentum causing your back to slam up against the wall. Getting onto your hands and knees, you crawl over to the small window to get a look at the vehicle in hot pursuit. In the distance you hear sirens, and realize whoever is pursuing you must be working with the police.

Another projectile shoots out towards the van, but the driver swerves in time and it misses. Nausea begins to creep up on you as he executes another quick turn, and you hope that you’ll be able to hold it down this time.

“Call for backup!” The woman snaps, and the driver makes a noise of agreement.

“All patrols fall in to our location!” He shouts into what is likely a communicator of some kind. There are static-y noises of what might be agreement, and the driver executes another sharp turn.

You tumble around, scrabbling for purchase, until you manage to grab onto the projectile stuck in the van doors. You yank, but the doors remain tightly shut; it had not interfered with the locking mechanism. You slump, eventually deciding to just hold on tight to it, looking back out the window.

Your eyes widened as you watch a shadowy figure rise from inside the vehicle onto its roof, strapped into some kind of mechanism. You can’t see clearly, and you’re not exactly an expert, but it looks like a big ass gun, which does not bode well for you. At least, it does not bode well for your chances of making it out of this alive.

A shot rings out, followed by another, but the driver executes another sharp turn, and they hit whatever was in front of you.

“They’re aiming for the tires!” The woman snaps, “where is the backup?”

As if summoned, several motorcycles fall in around the van, several more flanking the vehicle in pursuit. Two motorcyclists jump off their bikes, latching onto the vehicle with some kind of magnetic grasp. They begin to climb up towards the shadowy figure, who quickly retreats back down into the vehicle. By the time they reach the top, the opening which the figure had come from is closed.

Initial target no longer available, they begin to make their way to the front of the vehicle. Before they can reach the windshield, another, much larger figure jumps up from the back, something glinting in each of its hands.

The scuffle is embarrassingly short, the figure knocking both the assailants off the roof in seconds flat. You stare in wide-eyed wonder at the person capable of defeating the people who’ve kept you hostage for months/years/a fucking eternity.

There!” The woman shouts, “under that bridge!” And with another swerve that once again steals your feet out from under you, the van takes off with a squeal of tires towards a low hanging bridge. The van is almost too tall to fit through safely, a couple of high-pitched screeches coming from the top where its roof hits concrete, and the much taller vehicle following stands no chance. You watch as it screeches to a stop just in time, eyes locked on its shrinking figure until it is out of sight.

You slam your head against the door, fighting frustrated tears as your rescue vanishes on the horizon.

#

“It was a trap,” the woman snaps, “they were trying to flush us out.” The doors to the van are yanked open, two new soldiers in front of them to escort you wherever they need you to go. You allow yourself to be tugged along, too overwhelmed by night’s events to put up much of a fight.

“The old facility was seized by the police,” a nearby man in a lab coat says, “they appeared to be in league with the turtles.”

“That means both they and the police have whatever data we were unable to delete in time,” the woman mutters, glaring down at the hard drive. She sighs, before shaking her head. “Not all is lost. All of her old handler’s data is on this drive, and our prime subject is with us.” She hands the drive to the man, before turning to you. “She has proven resistant to the neurotoxins which have been such a problem in the modified mutagen.”

“Fascinating,” the man says, examining you. “Have we discovered why?”

“For now we are focused on perfecting the formula,” the woman replies, “once we get the desired results we can focus on discovering what makes her unique.”

“A genetic mutation,” he mutters, either ignoring her or deaf to anything but you. “Or defect, perhaps?” He pauses for second, eyebrows furrowed. “Is she supposed be glowing like that?”

“This happens at the start of every injection,” the woman says, “or so I have been told. It should wear off in a few hours.”

“We’ll begin the tests tomorrow,” the man says with a nod, “once the aftereffects of the previous experiment have worn off.”

“Just get it done,” the woman snaps, “we must find him.”

“We will,” the man assures. He pauses for another moment. “What’s her name?”

“Test subject 124,” the woman says, “the file will tell you all you need to know.” And with that she stalks off. The man gives a semi-amused hum.

“Sorry about her,” the man says, “she and her master aren’t particularly friendly. Believe me, I know.” You open your mouth to ask what, exactly, he’s doing working for her, then, but click it shut; everyone has a price.

“Didn’t trust me with the project at first,” the man giggles, “now she has no choice!” He shuffles off, drive in hand, and one of your new guards shoves you moving to what you assume to be your new cell.

#

“You said she was supposed to stop emitting light by now,” the man says the next morning, examining your veins.

“The previous woman working on the project claimed she stopped after several hours, once her antibodies had attacked and killed the modified mutagen,” the woman says, apparently having decided she needed to oversee the project personally.

“And where is this woman now?” The man asks.

“Dead,” she replies, “whichever brother was sent to act as a decoy decided not to spare her.” There’s a tense silence.

“Unlike them,” the man mutters, shining a light in both your eyes.

“It would seem they draw the line at human traffickers,” the woman says, and the man snorts.

“Murderers are spared, but traffickers are not?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I do not pretend to understand their self-righteous morality,” the woman replies, “I am concerned with mine and mine alone.”

“And what does your morality say?” The man asks, pricking one of your veins. The blood oozes out red, no longer shining once it oxidizes.

“That I shall do what is needed to return my master to me,” she says coolly, and the man hums.

“The last entry on the data drive reported failure,” the man says eventually, “but it also reported she stopped emitting light, so it’s possible it was not up to date.”

“Meaning what?” The woman asks.

“Meaning this round of experimentation may not have been catalogued,” he explains, “so we don’t know what’s causing her to react differently this time.” The woman swears.

“Can you reverse engineer it?” She asks, eyeing you.

“I might be able to,” he says, standing. “But it will be difficult. Upon oxidization, her blood seems to return to normal.”

“And that will make things difficult how, exactly?” The woman asks, eyes narrowing.

“It means I can’t get a sample of her blood, so you’re going to have to give me some time to figure out an alternative.” He replies, and you wince. Whatever the solution ends up being, you doubt you’ll like it.

“Just get it done,” the woman says, crossing her arms. The man nods before turning back to face you again.

“But of course,” he says, “I’ll also need to get a testing chamber ready, but that shouldn’t take long.” You shudder, the realization you’ll soon be back to enduring horrors sitting heavy in your gut. The woman nods, before saying something in Japanese to one of the soldiers tailing her. They march forward, picking you back up from the chair you’d been sitting in. Having no drugs in your system for a change, you quickly get your feet under you, yanking your arms out of their grasp so you can walk unaided. You do not know if their acceptance of your display of independence is just them humoring you or them letting go out of genuine surprise, and you don’t particularly care, you’re just relieved to be walking on your own again.

#

You’re still glowing after however many days it takes for them to come fetch you from your new, marginally more comfortable cell, which has actual bedding on the floor this time. You’re proud to say you only drag your feet a tiny amount, and the guards only shove you once for your dawdling.

The fear immediately rushes to the front, however, when you enter the lab to see a new confinement chamber sitting off to the side. The woman who brought you here stands beside it, arms crossed and silent.

“Not as fancy as the one in your old lab, I’m sure,” the scientist says, “but it’ll get the job done.” You glare at him. Your guards place you in the same chair as before, the one without straps. You aren’t certain if this lack of security stems from kindness or hubris, but you decide not to question it. Probably the former, considering it’s unlikely you’d be able to get much farther than the lab without being caught again.

“But before that, I’ve got a new blood drawing technique I’d like to try,” he says, and your heart thuds; they hadn’t injected you with anything new, so why are they putting you in the chamber?

He bends down in front of you with a fancy needle connected to some kind of device, pricking it gently into one of your veins. You sit still, jaw clenched tight, eyes never leaving the confinement chamber. The man fiddles with the device, before looking up and following your gaze.

“We’ve got nothing new to inject you with,” the man assures, “I just want to see for myself how you react to the stimulus, especially given the fact you’re still emitting light.” You try to avoid shaking, but don’t entirely succeed. The man puts a hand on your shoulder. “I know it isn’t exactly a comfortable experience, but this is for the good of science. What you are contributing to will go down in the history books.” _Uncomfortable?_ Is that his way of describing sticking you in a chamber, making you hallucinate your worst fears? You’d skin him alive, if you weren’t afraid the scientist they’d replace him with would be even worse.

A few minutes pass in silence, before the man sighs and shakes his head. “Guess I’ll have to find a way to extract it in an air-free environment,” he mutters, and you internally wish him the best of luck on that endeavor. “Just a couple tests in the chamber, and we’ll be good.” Your heartbeat skyrockets, and you begin to sweat. “Come on now, up with you,” he says, voice cheery.

You shake your head frantically, sinking back into the chair. The man frowns, motioning for the guards, who come forward and yank you up. You whimper, the sound coming out closer to a croak as you are dragged over.

“Now, now,” the man soothes, “think of what you’ll be doing for science!” And with that you’re flung inside.

#

You close your eyes, curling up into a ball as the gas begins to seep into the room. _None of it is real_ you chant, _none of it is real_.

The mantra helps a little in the beginning, but as nightmare creatures begin to seep out from the walls, misshapen figures which drip blackness, hissing and screeching, you begin to lose your nerve.

“It’s not real,” you whisper, “it’s not real.” One of the figures stands on a limp leg, shambling over to you, clawed hand outstretched. You suck in a breath, trying not to hyperventilate, and wonder what you could have possibly done in your past life to deserve this. The figure gets closer, trailed by others, one without legs dragging itself towards you on the ground, another creeping along the walls. All you can think is you want them gone, you want them all _gone_.

_You_ want to be gone, away from this place, away from these people, you want to be _safe_. The figure’s right in front of you, reaching its clawed hand out, and you scoot backwards.

“No,” you croak, “ _no._ ” Your back hits the wall, and you choke back a sob. It’s going to carve you up, it’s going to scoop out your insides, it’s going to – “ _No!_ ”

Your veins glow blue, and with a flash of blinding light, a jagged, zigzagging line appears in front of you, like some kind of beacon. The confinement cell’s walls rattle as energy pours out from the glowing line, one of the panels flying off and disappearing into the zigzag.

You begin to slide closer against your will, as another panel is sucked into the… portal? Tear? You’re not exactly a scientist, but you’re pretty sure strange energy zigzags which make things disappear fall into one of those categories.

After seconds, after centuries, the line begins to shrink, the energy dwindling, until you are alone in the chamber once more.

For a while there is nothing, until finally the gas begins to drain from the room. You collapse, shuddering with the usual after effects of inhaling the hallucinogen. Once the room is free of gas, the door opens and your guards march in.

“It worked,” the man breathes, before giggling maniacally. “It worked!” He turns to the woman, who you’d honestly forgotten was in the room, as you’re sat back down in your chair. “Do you know what this means?”

“We need to evacuate,” the woman says, moving quickly, “that energy surge had enough power to be tracked from hundreds of miles away.”

“The energy signature is unique,” the man dismisses with a wave of his hand, “they would have to be looking for it, and, as it is an alien technology, no Earth device would know how.” The woman appears somewhat mollified, though still tense.

The man walks up to you, kneeling down to meet your gaze, eyes wide and elated behind his glasses. “We have created our own mutation,” he says, looking you up and down. “We have played God.”

“ _You_ have done nothing,” the woman says, “and the one who _did_ is now dead.”

“It was a team effort,” the man replies, and you roll your eyes. He glares at you, and you glare back.

“We’re not done yet,” he says, standing. “We still need to discover what makes her immune to the neurotoxins. We won’t be able to replicate the results otherwise.” He pauses. “Not to mention the latest changes were undocumented, so we have to reverse engineer to discover the correct formula.” You groan, trying to fend off a surge of nausea, and he turns to give you a quick look over. “She’s done for the day,” he says, “you can take her back.” Your guards nod, picking you up, and you black out for a second from the dizziness. They march you out, leaving the two higher ups to their planning.

#

Your veins return to their purple glow after a few hours, and not even a day later you’re brought back to the lab.

“We’re going to try a new blood drawing technique,” he explains, and you notice the chair now has straps on it. “It’s going to be painful, I’m afraid.” You can’t say you’re surprised.

They strap you in, before placing an IV drip in you, and you wince. The second the liquid touches your veins they all but catch fire, and you grit your teeth against the burn. It is not as bad as your previous regular injections, but it’s close.

“Once you’re done absorbing that, we’ll take a sample of your blood,” the man says, “I have work to do in the meantime.” And with that he begins shuffling about the lab, mind already elsewhere.

You’re about 45 minutes in, if the clock is to be believed, close to falling asleep, when you notice it.

A small, green, drone-like object flies strategically through your guards’ blind spots, using equipment and furniture in the lab as cover. You blink, pain momentarily forgotten. It’s movements are precise enough to require some kind of thinking mechanism, because it adjusts its path when one of your guards shifts. Be it AI or remote control, the mind behind it wants something, something it doesn’t want the people in this room to know it wants.

If it’s noticed you watching, it makes no move to shift its actions. You try to follow its flight pattern in an attempt to figure out what it wants from where it seems to be going, but can’t get much more than it appears to be getting closer to the scientist.

After around five minutes of this it comes to a stop, hovering behind a couple of barrels of chemicals, no longer moving. You notice a large swath of open area in the direction it appears to be going, and realize there’s no way it’s getting past that without being noticed by the guards. It would take a pretty big distraction to have them occupied enough for it to sneak past. You consider, then grin.

Not like your life’s gonna get much worse, right? And the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

You give an ostentatious shout, before you begin to wiggle in your bindings, jumping up and down in the chair as much as your restraints will allow. Both the guards and the scientists startle, swiftly turning to you.

“It hurts,” you cry, voice scratchy from disuse, “it hurts!” With another jerk, you fall to the side, and your chair goes with you. You wince as you bang your shoulder, but at least IV drip is yanked free.

“Grab her!” The scientist snaps, rushing over. The guards followed close behind, each grabbing ahold of you, but you just wiggle harder.

“It hurts!” You screech, watching from the corner of your eye as the drone only hesitates a moment before darting across the room. A wire drops down from it as it approaches the computer the scientist had been using, which it quickly plugs into one of the ports.

You scream and thrash some more, adding some expletives for good measure, attempting to buy it as much time as you can to download what it needs to. It unplugs after about 30 seconds, darting back to an open ceiling grate. It seems to hesitate for a moment, like it’s torn, and you give it a wink. It retreats after another moment, and you finally go limp.

“What was that?” The scientist snaps, and you give your best kicked puppy look.

“It hurt so bad.” You say, not really even lying. The man curses, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses, and shakes his head.

“An allergy maybe,” he mutters, “your file said you had a high pain threshold, so if it was painful enough to make you act like that it must’ve been a bad reaction.”

“Or she was trying to get out of it,” one of your guards growls, holding your head to the ground. You give a _who, me?_ look.

“Let’s wait until tomorrow,” he mutters, “if there are no lasting side effects, we’ll try it again. Take her back to her cell, just keep an eye on her for the next few hours.” The guards nod, placing you upright in the chair and unlatching you.

#

They watch you like a hawk for a couple of hours, and when there are no lingering side effects to speak of, they taser you within an inch of your life.

You lie on the ground, twitching and holding back tears; you’d forgotten how harsh they were when punishing test subjects for misbehavior.

You just hope whatever the drone was looking for was worth it.

Exhaustion from the day and pain getting the better of you, you drift into an uneasy sleep.

#

You wake to what sounds like bell chimes, and give a pained groan; everything fucking hurts. You turn to face the wall, covering your ears with your hands, hoping you’ll be able to drift off again even with the noise.

The chimes become more insistent, closer to the clanking of metal on metal, and you finally turn to snap at whatever’s hell-bent on keeping you from blissful sleep, only to blink.

In front of your cell door hovers the drone. It taps insistently on your bars a few more times with a small metal arm, which it retracts back into itself once it seems sure it has your attention. You stare at the little camera lens you assume is its eye, and tilt your head. There’s a long silence.

“Yeah?” You ask, voice even more scratchy after being tasered. The drone does a little loop, which clarifies nothing, and you raise an eyebrow. There’s another silence, and you give a soft laugh. “Here to say thank you?” You prompt, and the drone does two more loops. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” you say with a wave of your hand, “don’t mention it.” You pause for a second.

“The tazing hurt like a bitch, though.” The drone does not move for a moment, before shifting left and right a few times. “Not your fault,” you say, “and they’ve put me through worse, don’t worry about it.” The drone just inches a little bit closer to the bars, its propellers almost touching them. You look it up and down for a moment, considering.

“What are you, anyway?” You ask, “they experimenting with AI here too?” The drone shifts left and right a few times, and you hum, quiet as you examine it for a short while. “Well whatever you are, I suggest you leave. If you escaped they’re going to be searching for you, and smack dab in front of my cell isn’t exactly a security blind spot.” You motion to the two cameras sitting atop the wall. The drone does a couple of loops in the air, before the USB wire from before drops down again, as if in explanation. You blink.

“You hacked it?” You ask, and the drone loops a few times, retracting the wire. “Impressive,” you say with a grin, “looks like they’ll live to regret creating you.” Your smile slips a bit. “I’dI killed to be in your position.” The drone tilts slightly as if in question.

“Free,” you explain, “small enough to not be easily noticeable.” You pause for second, scowling. “Not being injected with liquid fire and getting thrown in those hallucination chambers all the time.” The drone slows its propellers, eventually touching down on the concrete as if to settle in to listen.

“I don’t pretend to understand it,” you say, “I wasn’t a science person before all this.” You hesitate. “At least, I don’t think I was. Who knows, I guess.” The drone gives a quick spin of its propellers, like it’s trying to be an active listener, and you give a small laugh.

“I think the hallucinations are a way to get what they want from me,” you explain, “somehow.” You pause again. “Either that or they just like torturing me, which I honestly wouldn’t put past them.” You lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. “They make me see a bunch of scary shit, get disappointed when all I do is curl up and cry, then send me back to my cell.” You open your eyes and stare at the ceiling for a moment. “Until yesterday, anyway.” The drone gives another spin of its propellers.

“It’s how I became a glowstick,” you say, motioning to your purple veins, “Couldn’t explain it if I tried,” you give a wry smile. “Sorry, Chopper.” The drones spins its propellers, lifting off ever so slightly before plopping back down.

“Your propellers,” you clarify, “they make you look kinda like a helicopter.” Chopper spins them slowly, and you sigh.

“As nice as it is to have someone to talk to,” you say, “you really should get out of here while you still can.” Chopper takes to the air again, zigzagging around. “Can’t imagine it’ll be easy to escape a second time if they catch you.” It zigzags some more, before dropping down its mechanical arm and banging on your cell door a couple times.

“I’ll be okay, buddy,” you say with a sad smile, “just get outta here. Give whatever info you stole to someone who can use it.” Chopper’s arm retracts, and it plops down on the ground in a sad lump. You laugh, sticking your hand through the bars to give it a soft poke.

“As long as you remember me in your heart I’m not dead, or whatever,” you say with a grin, “now skedaddle.” It doesn’t move for a moment, but finally its propellers begin to turn, and it rises back up. It hovers at eye level with you for a bit, before floating up to the open vent, and it’s gone.

You sit back on your bedding, already hating the silence.

#

They give you a whole 24 hours before they decide it’s time for more testing. Or, specifically, retesting the testing they stopped testing because you threw a fit about the testing.

You’re strapped down to the chair with more force than strictly necessary, which you figure you technically deserve after the stunt you pulled, but it’s still rude.

“I’m still not sure what caused you to act out,” the scientist says, wheeling over a fresh IV drip. “You’ve been very complacent this whole time.” If he’s fishing for answers he’s not going to find any, and you raise an eyebrow at him. There’s a silence, before he sighs and shakes his head.

“Well you had no negative reactions to speak of,” he says, “so we’ll try this again.” He sticks the IV in your arm, and you flinch as the fire starts. “Behave this time, and I’m sure we can put your little episode behind us.” You glare at him through the pain, but are smart enough to sit still this time.

It takes over an hour and a half, and by the time the IV drip is empty you’ve started to snooze.

“All right!” The man says, making you jump. “Time to draw some blood!” He takes the needle out, only to replace it with another, which slowly begins swirling pale violet liquid into the syringe. He breaks out into a grin.

“It worked!” The man says, replacing the syringe with another. “Now let’s hope it doesn’t oxidize over time.” He giggles to himself, and you roll your eyes.

Once they’ve taken as much blood as they can without killing you, they unstrap you, and the whole world tilts as they try to stand you up. They take you back to your cell, practically carrying you in your near unconscious state.

#

The cycle repeats for several days, and you start to feel like a vampire’s victim.

It’s not until the fourth day when your world implodes.

You’re being escorted to your next blood drawing session when one of your guards shouts before falling, quickly followed by the next. You whip around, staring at their figures on the ground, eyes wide. Something darts out in front of you, and you take a step back on instinct, only to gasp.

Chopper hovers in front of you, some kind of mini taser arm hanging from beneath it. You stare, shellshocked, only to glare at it.

“I told you to get out of here,” you hiss, “you’re gonna get caught!” It does several circles around you, before freezing and turning the other way. It turns back again quickly, before flying over to an innocuous door and banging the mini taser on it. You blink, eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you glitching?” You ask, “is that what this is?” It quickly flies behind you, then proceeds to give you a slight zap to the shoulder. You yelp, taking an involuntary step towards the door.

“Don’t you fucking herd me!” You snap, “do I look like a sheep to you?” It zaps you again, and you snarl.

“Alright fine, I’m going!” You hiss, “if you walk me into the cafeteria or some shit I’m disassembling you –” you open the door and walk in, nearly running smack dab into a shelf of cleaning supplies. Chopper follows quickly behind, before banging the door again. You roll your eyes, but click it shut.

“Well now what?” You ask, crossing your arms. It gives you another zap.

“Don’t get touchy with me!” You snap, “I told you to get out of here, and instead you get us both locked in a closet! I’m gonna get the beating of a lifetime!” You shudder, rubbing your arms and glaring.

Copper touches your forehead gently, before racing over to the other side of the supply closet. It retracts its taser, instead dropping down its three limbed hand, which it uses to yank something out from behind some bottles of bleach. You blink as it places some kind of stick in your hands. It’s much heavier than it should be for its size, and you furrow your brow, examining it.

“I… Thank you?” You try, looking down then back up again. “You realize I can’t play fetch with you right now, right?” Your finger touches something, you blink again. “There’s a… Button?” You say, thumbing it, and Chopper quickly backs up.

Just in time, too, because the second you click it both ends of the stick shoot outwards, glowing a static-y blue, one slamming into the door and the other punching a hole through the bottle of bleach where Chopper had just been hovering.

You yelp, dropping it and quickly backing up. Copper zooms down, its mechanical hand clicking the button, making both sides of the stick retract. It picks the stick back up, flying over and holding it out for you again.

“What in God’s fucking name _is_ that thing?” You hiss, glaring at it, then back up at Chopper. Chopper swishes it around one direction, then the next, then jabs it forward. You stare for a moment. “It’s a weapon,” you say, “you found a weapon.” You take it from the drone, examining it again. “They have guns and we have, what, a glowing stick?” Its hand retreats, mini taser coming out again, and it gives you a slight zap. “It’s a _stick_ , Chopper, forgive me for pointing that out.” It zaps you again, and you roll your eyes.

“Chopper I appreciate this,” you sigh, “but unless you have a plan on getting through all the guards, then all we’re really accomplishing is getting me in big, _big_ trouble.” It flies over and bangs on the door, and you narrow your eyes.

“You have a plan?” You ask skeptically, and it does a little loop. “And what, exactly, might that be?” It retreats its mini taser, sticking its mechanical hand out again, and you glance down at it. You offer back the stick, but it doesn’t take it, instead tapping your other shoulder. You blink, but hesitantly stretch out your empty hand, which it grabs onto and begins to fly backwards, tugging you along.

“Follow you?” you ask, and it lets go, doing a few loops. “Your plan is I follow you.” You repeat, eyes narrowing as it loops again. You consider the benefits of just going back to your cell, holding out hope you won’t get punished if you just pretend it didn’t happen. “Chopper…” You sigh, staring down at the stick.

You blink when you feel a gentle touch on your forehead again, one which slides down the side of your face. You look up at Chopper as its mechanical hand retreats, and blink back a sudden inexplicable urge to cry.

“Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath, “don’t have much to lose, I guess.” You give a shaky smile, and it does another loop.

It shoots over to the door, banging once. You give a soft laugh as you follow, though inside your heart is pounding. You open the door, and it shoots out, racing over to your still unconscious guards. It grabs one with its mechanical hand, releasing him before shooting over to the closet again.

“Put them in the closet,” you mumble, “right.” You stick your weapon through your bra strap as a makeshift pocket, before grabbing one guard and beginning to pull.

You grunt, heaving and ho-ing, but months in a cell have not been kind to your fitness levels. You manage to drag the first guard halfway there before slumping down, while Chopper does its part by flying in circles around you. You consider for a moment.

“Okay,” you mutter, “new plan.” You take the stick back out, holding it away from yourself as you push the button. Both sides shoot out, and you maneuver it so one is under the man while you grasp the other. Slowly but surely you use the leverage to shove him in the closet, followed closely by the second.

“There,” you say with a nod.

You begin to walk out of the closet, only to screech when something grabs your ankle. One of your guards clings tight, rising to an elbow.

“You will not escape,” the man snarls, nails digging into your skin, and without thinking you jam the stick into his chest. It sparks to life, and the man writhes as electricity courses through him. You yank it back, and he lies still once more. Panting, you eventually turn to Chopper, who just hovers there for a moment.

There’s a short silence.

“It’s… an okay weapon,” you mumble finally, clutching it tight to your chest. Chopper hovers for another moment, before doing several loops and shooting over to tap the door. You nod, clicking it shut, and turn back towards the hallway.

“All right,” you say, “next step?”

Chopper shoots around the corner, and you follow slowly, eyes darting everywhere.

“Shouldn’t there be like, patrols, or something?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed. You turn the corner to see Chopper by a vent, who drops down its USB cable in way of answering. “I don’t think you can hack people,” you say in exasperation, but don’t press the issue.

Fiddling with the grate, you blink when it pops off easily. “So you _did_ have a plan,” you say, impressed. It zaps you again, and you give a soft laugh. You sit back on your heels, watching as Chopper shoots inside, before following close behind, turning to replace the grate before you go.

“We sure a full grown human’s gonna fit through these?” You ask, wincing as your shoulder bangs against one of the sides. Chopper doesn’t have the room to loop, but it darts ahead, which you assume means it’s confident you will. With a sigh, you begin to crawl.

It’s an eternity of turns and twists through identical shafts of purple-tinted gray, chasing after a green drone who you realize, too little too late, you have no clue actually knows what it’s doing. Maybe you’re destined to die up in the vents.

You’ve decided it’s preferable to injections and hallucinations at this point. If escaping this hellhole is how you go, so be it. Chopper stops finally at a dead-end, and you catch up, panting.

“We there yet?” You mutter, wincing as you bang your head on accident. Chopper goes forward a little bit more, before it disappears downward, and your heart freezes. You scoot forward, gasping when there is abruptly no longer metal beneath your fingers. Gazing down, you see what must be at least a 40 foot drop. Chopper hovers somewhere in the middle, giving one of the sides a little bang when you don’t move.

“Have you lost your mind?” You hiss, “a fall like that will snap my neck!” It flies back up, before a rope of some kind drops down from beneath it, and you give it an unimpressed look.

“I don’t know how to break this to you,” you say, “but you’re not gonna be able to hold my weight.” The flat portion of its head flips around as its propellers retreat back into itself, but before it can fall it’s slammed up against the top of the vent. You stare.

“A magnet,” you breathe, “it’s like you were _tailored_ for this rescue mission.” It vibrates a bit, but is otherwise unable to move. You give the rope a tug to make sure it’s secure, before taking a moment to steel your nerves, and begin the descent.

It’s an excruciating couple minutes, using arm power you didn’t know you possessed to keep them in front of your head, but at long last you reach the bottom. After some maneuvering to bend yourself in half in order to get flat again in the next passage, the rope zips back up, and soon you hear the whirl of Chopper’s propellers behind you.

“Just zap whichever leg is the direction I need to go, I guess,” you say, and begin to crawl forward again.

It turns out there is no zapping required, because pretty soon you come face-to-face with a grate leading out to wet concrete. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you reach a shaking hand out to give it a gentle push. It falls off immediately, and you crawl out into the open air, tears stinging at your eyes.

You stand on shaky legs, looking up at the night sky in wonder. You’re in some dinghy back alley behind what appears to be a skyscraper, filled with the smell of rotting garbage, and it’s the best place you’ve ever been.

“We did it,” you sob, “we’re free.” Chopper shoots out from behind you, spinning around you, and you laugh. You grab it from the air, hugging it tight. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

There’s a sound from the front of the alley, something like shouting, and you freeze. Chopper vibrates, and you let it go, stepping back behind a dumpster to pull out your stick.

Chopper zips over to the middle of the alley, and you glare.

“They’re gonna see you!” You hiss, but it just stops its propellers and plops down. “Chopper!” It whirls its propellers enough to lift slightly off the ground, before flopping back down again. You look to the alley, heart thudding in your chest, but eventually race over.

“What?” You snap, “what is it?” Chopper bangs on the ground again, and you blink when you realize it is the sound of metal against metal, rather than metal and concrete.

“A manhole?” You hiss, “you want me to go into the _sewer_?” It takes to the air, spinning around a couple times, and you groan. There’s another bout of shouting, louder this time, and you tense.

“All right,” you mutter, yanking at the heavy piece of metal. “But if we get eaten by sewer gators I’m blaming you.” Chopper spins around a few times, and you give a sigh.

It takes some manhandling, but you finally manage to get it open, grabbing onto the ladder and descending. Chopper follows close behind you, and you yank the lid closed once it’s passed.

The sewer would be pitch black, if not for the glow of your veins, which cast everything in a violet hue.

“Almost makes up for this smell,” you mutter, clutching the stick tight to you. Chopper circles around you a couple times, before zooming ahead.

“Hey, wait!” You yelp, jogging to catch up. “Do we even know where we’re going?” Chopper does a couple loops, before taking a left.

You follow it through the maze, trying desperately to keep out the smell by breathing through your mouth, shuddering when you occasionally step on something slimy in your too-thin prison shoes.

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” you snap, “if I die of some gross infection after all this, I will never forgive you.” Chopper ignores you, making a few more turns, before it comes to a stop. You stop along with it, eyes widening when you notice light ahead.

“What are lights doing on in the sewer…?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed. It zips ahead, making one more turn, and you follow slowly. Turning the corner, you freeze.

The tunnel opens to a large room, filled to the brim with everything from arcade games to couches to what look like fucking _swords_ on racks. You walk in slowly, all but hypnotized, clutching your stick tight.

“Chopper, what is this place?” You breathe, gazing up and around.

Something crashes to your left, and you whip around to see the source of the noise.

You gasp.

In front of you stands some kind of turtle-human mutant, orange bandanna around its face, looking just as surprised to see you as you are to see it. It’s got both height and mass on you, and you clutch your stick tight.

“Um,” you try, but all words escape you in the face of another living breathing being.

Chopper zips by you, zapping the mutant once, before taking off into one of the adjacent tunnels.

“Donnie, what the hell bro!” The mutant yelps, rubbing where it was stung. You open and close your mouth, before realizing your guide is abandoning you.

“Chopper, wait!” You shout, trying to take off after it, but the mutant grabs you by the shoulder. You squirm, trying to get away, but it holds tight.

“Easy now,” the mutant says, but you’re not listening. You click the button on your stick, and it shoots out, zapping the mutant in the chest.

“What in the – is that Donnie’s staff?” The mutant yelps, stumbling back.

“It’s mine,” you snap, “I don’t know what you are, or what you’re doing here –”

“What I’m –?” The mutant repeats, “I live here, bro!” You blink.

“You –? Are there actually sewer gators?” You ask.

“It’s okay!” A new voice comes from the right, and you turn to see an even larger turtle come rushing in. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

“Not gonna hurt her?” The first turtle asks, “ _she’s_ the one who hurt _me_ , bro! With _your_ staff!”

“You probably startled her!” The second turtle says, like you’re some kind of cornered animal. It quickly comes between you two, kneeling down to get on your eye level; you glare daggers.

“I’m Donatello,” it (he?) says, “I brought you here, you’re safe now.” He gives you a smile, and you look him up and down, tightening your hold on your stick.

“Chopper brought me here,” you correct him, taking a step back. You give a quick glance at the other turtle, who’s just staring in wide-eyed, open-mouthed confusion.

“I control Chopper,” he explains, typing a bit in a keypad on his forearm. There’s the sound of whirling, before Chopper comes racing in. “See?” You blink, before glaring at the robot.

“Traitor,” you hiss.

“Just _what_ is going on here?” Another voice snaps, two more turtles appearing from the left, both with a weapon in each hand. You curl in on yourself, flashbacks of angry voices and tasers and pain filling your thoughts. You collapse to your knees, clutching your staff tight, shaking.

“You’re scaring her!” Donatello snaps, turning on his heels to the angry one.

“Scarin’ _who_?” The fourth asks, crossing two muscled arms.

“Donnie gave some girl his staff and lured her into the lair!” The orange turtle exclaims, “and she _glows_!”

“He _what_?” The one with the swords asks, advancing.

“I did not!” Donatello (Donnie?) protests, before hesitating. “I mean I did, but not like that!”

“Donnie, what did you _do_?” Swords turtle hisses.

“The Foot Clan were experimenting on her,” Donatello says, “I had to get her out!”

“Are you telling me you disobeyed a _direct order_ –?” The one in blue snaps, looking like he is genuinely considering slicing someone into ribbons.

“You ordered me not to leave the lair,” Donatello corrects, crossing his arms. “And I didn’t.”

“Dude,” the in one orange says, looking up at the one in red. “Did _Donnie_ actually disobey an order?”

“You heard the man,” the one in red says with a grin, crossing his arms. “He ain’t disobeyed no one.”

“I told you not to leave the lair because I didn’t want you to go on some stupid rescue mission and lose us our advantage!” The one in blue hisses, ignoring the other two. “Once they realize she’s gone they’re going to shore up any security weaknesses we could have used!”

“It’s our job to help people, Leo!” Donatello snaps, “it was my job to help her!”

“It’s our job to take down the Foot Clan!” Leo snarls, “ _that_ is how we help people!”

“She literally _glows purple_!” Donatello says, throwing his hands up. “Leaving her in their hands _couldn’t_ have been good!”

“I give the orders, Donnie!” Leo snaps, “and I said she wasn’t worth it!”

“Well _I_ say you don’t get to decide the value of a human life!” Donatello replies hotly.

“Will someone please explain what is happening here?” A fifth voice snaps, and you glance over to see a humanoid rat walking into a room. The rat pauses when it catches sight of you.

“Master Splinter,” Leo says, turning. “Donnie disobeyed a direct order, he mounted a rescue mission by himself and –”

“I did _not_ disobey an order!” Donatello cuts in, “he told me not to leave the lair, and I didn’t –”

“That counts and you know it!” Leo snaps, “I’m used to that kind of behavior from Raph and Mikey, but I expected better from you!”

“How _dare_ you!” Donnie shouts, “you expect me to be your obedient puppet, but I’m sick of just standing by and watching you pretend like you always know best!”

“Enough!” Master Splinter snaps, “the both of you!” Silence falls. You fiddle with your staff, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Donatello,” Master Splinter says, “why did you feel it was necessary to rescue the girl?”

“Because they were torturing her,” Donnie says, looking back at you.

“Many people are tortured by the Foot Clan,” Master Splinter points out, “why was she an exception?” Donnie hesitates.

“Because I believe she was the cause of the massive energy surge from a few days ago,” Donnie says after a moment, “leaving her in their hands was risking a breakthrough we couldn’t afford to let them make.” Master Splinter is quiet for a while, examining him.

“But that was not the first thing you said,” he replies, and Donatello looks to the ground. “And you, Leonardo? Unless you are privy to information Donatello is not, is there a reason you would not trust his diagnosis?”

“We could have saved her and everyone else if he’d just been patient!” Leonardo says, “we weren’t ready to launch a full-on assault, but we would have been soon!”

“You said yourself it could take months to collect enough information for that!” Donnie says, “it’s one of their main laboratories, it’s well protected! With Kraang technology, no less!”

“And we just lost our only way in!” Leo snaps.

“Then we will find a new way,” Splinter says.

“How?” Leo asks, “one isn’t just going to appear because we wish for it!”

“You will find one because you must,” Splinter says, before turning to you. “And you now have a resource you before did not.” He walks over, kneeling next to Donnie. “What is your name, Little One?”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden address.

“They, uh, called me 124?” You try, and Splinter frowns.

“And before you were captured?” He asks, tilting his head. You glance over at Donnie, who’s looking at you expectantly, then to Chopper, who’s just hovering; you scoot a little closer to Chopper.

“I… don’t remember,” you admit, “I don’t remember much before the last couple months. I think the injections messed with my memory.” There’s a silence.

“I see,” Splinter says quietly, “I assume that means you don’t know where your family is now, or anyone who could take you in.” You shake your head, holding your staff tighter to your body. A longer silence stretches, before you feel a scaly hand on your shoulder. You glance up to meet Donnie’s eyes.

“You can stay here,” he says softly, giving you a gentle smile.

“Uh, no she can’t,” Leo says quickly.

“We’re not throwing her out on the street,” Donnie says, eyes hard.

“Where will she even sleep?” Leo asks, “we have no room to house a guest!”

“She can have my bed,” Donnie says, “I’ll sleep on my cot in the lab.” He turns back to you, giving you a reassuring smile. “It’ll be fine.”

“This is a family, Donatello,” Splinter says, “everyone must get a vote.” He turns to the other two turtles, who you assume are Raph and Mikey. “What do you say, my sons?”

“Takin’ Little Miss Glowstick in ain’t gonna bring nothin’ but trouble,” the one in red says, crossing his arms. “No way she should stay.”

“And you, Michelangelo?” Splinter asks.

“A girl stayin’ in the lair?” Mikey says with a grin, “Hell yeah, bro!”

“Then we’re split,” Leo says, turning to Splinter. “What’s your vote, Master Splinter?” The rat is silent for a moment, examining you.

“Do you wish to stay, Little One?” Splinter asks, and you blink. You glance from Donnie to Chopper to Leonardo, and consider.

On the one hand, humanoid turtles who may cut you up in your sleep.

On the other hand, homelessness, and possible recapture.

“If you’ll have me,” you say, glancing up at him. Splinter hums, before giving you a smile.

“It is a ninja’s duty to help the helpless,” Splinter says, “you may stay.” You give him a thankful smile, even as Leo throws his hands up and stalks off, followed closely by Raph.

“Well that settles that!” Donnie says with a grin, “welcome to the lair!”

“You’re gonna love it here!” Mikey says, grabbing your hand and yanking you up. “I’ll give you the grand tour!” The sudden vertigo plus an empty stomach and exhaustion makes you stumble, almost crashing to the floor. Donnie catches you at the last second, much to your relief.

“The tour can wait until tomorrow,” Donnie says, “let’s get you cleaned up and fed first, and maybe a good night’s sleep.” You’re not sure you like being treated like some kind of stray, but admittedly it’s not far off the mark.

“Oh! Oh! I’ll make pasta!” Mikey shouts, bouncing up and down before taking off towards what you assume is the kitchen. Donnie stands, offering you a hand.

“I’ll show you the bathroom,” he says, “I’m sure it’ll feel good to get clean.” You wince, glancing down at your threadbare, grody prison clothes.

“That… might be nice,” you say, taking his hand.

He leads you left, past a TV and bunkbed, into what looks like a retrofitted dead-end tunnel, and also the only place with an actual door. He clicks it open, and inside is a bathtub, shower, sink, toilet, and mirror. All the plumbing devices are connected to some kind of boiler, which rests over a canal. You hesitate.

“Do I want to know where the water comes from?” You ask, glancing over at him.

“They’re connected to a water purifier,” he says brightly, implied meaning going completely over his head on being given a chance to gush about one of his creations. “I made it out of scrap metal I found in this great junkyard, a lot of my metal comes from there, and with some tweaking the filters catch everything 100% of the time!” You try not to wince. “It means you can’t take a shower for long though, you’ll run out of purified water. It won’t start pouring dirty water, but the water will shut off, so recommended shower time is under 10 minutes.” You stare at him, before bursting out into giggles.

“What?” He blinks.

“It’s just you got all excited talking about your invention,” you laugh, “you should tell me about more of them sometime.” His face turns a darker green, and he clears his throat.

“W-well, thank you,” he says, “when I talked to my brothers about my projects their eyes just sort of… glaze over.”

“Sounds like a sibling thing to do,” you say with a nod, and he gives a soft laugh.

You turn back around, walking over to the shower.

“I’ll try to find you something to wear,” he says quickly, before you hear the door shut. You take off your clothes, stepping in and turning the freezing cold water on with a sigh of relief. It’s the temperature you’re used to, but much better pressure compared to the occasional hosing down they used to give you in the lab.

You glance to the side to see five different bars of soap, and hesitate. Surely none of them would mind…?

You make your best guess of which is Donatello’s, and use that one. There is only one bottle of shampoo, which makes that decision easier.

You realize you also have no towel upon getting out, and don’t particularly want to cross _that_ boundary, so you use your dirty clothes instead.

Donnie still hasn’t returned by the time you’re done, so you kill time by examining yourself in the mirror, immediately wincing at the bird’s nest that is your hair. Other than that, you seem to be in one piece, at least, albeit a little sickly, and still glowing purple. It occurs to you that, had they kicked you out, you would not have been able to go out into the world like this. What if-

There’s a knock on the door.

“Um,” Donnie’s voice comes from the other side, “we don’t really have any, uh, women’s clothes, and none of us wear shirts, so-”

“If you’re telling me I’m gonna have to walk around naked-” you start.

“No!” He squeaks, “no,” he says again, voice marginally more collected. “I found a sweater Raph knitted Mikey as a joke last year, it’ll go down to at least mid thigh, so you’ll be covered, or at least the… Important bits will be. I can tell April to pick you up a few clothes tomorrow, and anything else you might need- toothbrush, hairbrush-”

“All right, thank you,” you say. You open the door a crack, reaching out your hand, and something thick and woolen is placed in it. Pulling it back, you can definitely see the joke; it’s the most obnoxious shade of orange imaginable, and has the words _head: empty_ written on the front. You sigh, but put it on.

You drown in it, no surprise there, but thankfully the neck is small enough that the sweater stays on your body, and it goes down to your knees. The sleeves dwarf you, however, which is something you’re going to have to fix.

Donatello coughs into his fist several times upon catching sight of you, and you glare.

“Laugh it up Chopper,” you snap, “I’m cutting the sleeves.” You begin to walk off, sleeves dragging behind you.

“Lookin’ good, Babycakes!” Mikey cackles as you walk into the kitchen area, and you cross your arms.

“Where are scissors?” You demand, “I’m ruining your sweater so I can hold things again.”

“Here,” Donnie says, walking up to you with one of whatever weapon Raph was holding. “I’ll cut them for you. After you eat let me take your measurements so I can tell April what size to buy.” You eye the tiny sword warily.

“Just… Don’t cut my arms off,” you say, holding your hands out. He cuts carefully at the wrists, and pretty soon you have your hands again. You give a relieved sigh, trotting back to the bathroom to grab your staff where you left it. You hesitate upon eyeing your dirty prison clothes, before dumping them in the trash.

“Food’s ready!” Mikey calls, and you jog back over, stomach reminding you you haven’t eaten in over 12 hours.

After you sit down, he sets a plate of some kind of pasta in front of you, and you begin to devour it.

“You got an appetite!” Mikey says, “I like that in a woman!”

“Every woman on earth has an appetite, Mikey,” Donnie says in exasperation, and you choke on a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Science here to give a lecture on how to take things literally,” Mikey replies, waving him off.

“I’m not taking you literally if it’s literally what you said!” Donnie snaps.

“’S that the sweater I knitted?” A voice asks, and you turn to see Raph standing there, arms crossed. “Did you _cut the sleeves_?”

“ _I_ cut the sleeves,” Donnie cuts in, “it’s not as if it was seeing much use, Raph.”

“D’you have any idea how long that took me?” He stalks over, and you hide your head down, picking at your plate with your fork; if you’ve learned anything from your time in the lab, it’s that being very, very quiet in the face of anger usually reduces your chance of getting tasered.

“Don’t worry bro,” Mikey says, “I gave him permission.”

“Cuttin’ the sleeves like that means it gonna unravel!” Raph snaps, slamming his hands on the table.

“Give it a rest, Raph,” Donnie says, looking unimpressed with the display of aggression. “You can just re-stitch the ends once she has actual clothes.”

“Why are ya doin’ this shit, Donnie?” Raph asks, glaring. “Ya see ‘er once in a lab, and ya beggin’ Leo ta let ya save her. He says no, ya do it anyway, an’ now she’s paradin’ around in our clothes!”

“I already told you,” Donnie snaps, “I think she’s the cause of the energy surge-”

“But you don’t know that, do ya?” Raph challenges, “and that don’t explain why we gotta take care of ‘er!”

“Once I finish unencrypting the data I’ll know,” Donnie says, “data which, need I remind you, _she_ helped us get! And what’s the alternative? Keep her in her dirty prison clothes? It’s called being kind, Raph!”

“Last time we brought a girl down here, dad almost died,” Raph says, and there it is. “And now you bringin’ Foot Clan lab rats into the lair. It’s a recipe for disaster.”

“If she’s who I think she is,” Donnie says, “leaving her in their hands is a recipe for disaster.”

There’s a silence while they both stare at one another, and you hesitantly take an extra bite just to do something.

Finally the standoff breaks with Raph looking down and away, drumming his fingers on the table. He shoves off it, standing back up to full height. You gather your courage to look at his face, only to meet his stare head on.

“If you bring Shredder to our door, even by accident, I’ll take you down myself,” Raph says, “understood?”

“Raph!” Donnie snaps.

“No,” Raph says, “she needs ta know this. She and I don’t got no problem, long as she don’t give us any trouble. But if she do.” He leans in close. “She gonna answer ta me. Understood?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Donnie says quickly, “just ignore him.”

“Oooh,” Mikey gasps, “good cop bad cop!”

“Shut up, Mikey,” Raph and Donnie both snap at the same time.

“Alright,” you say, and all three look at you. “If anyone gives you trouble because of me, you can kill me.” There’s a short silence.

“No one’s going to kill you,” Donnie says softly, before glaring at Raph. “Right?”

“If she gets it, that’s what matters,” Raph mutters, before stalking off.

“Well that went well!” Mikey says brightly.

“He’s always like that,” Donnie says, “it’s just hot air.”

“He wants to protect his family,” you say, returning to eating. “You can’t blame him.” Both of the turtles fall quiet for a while, and you finish your meal in silence.

Once you’re done, Donnie takes your measurements, before leading you to a little nook that seems to serve as a bed. You examine all the monitors and circuit boards surrounding it with amusement.

“And what’s this one do?” You ask, motioning to the third monitor.

“Nothing like TV in bed,” he says from his position of squatting to be level with your now reclining body. “It’s also connected to the Internet.”

“That means it’s where he watches his porn!” Mikey shouts from the living room area.

“Mikey!” Donnie snaps, and you laugh.

“Even mutant turtles, huh?” You ask, grinning.

“Hell yeah, and Donnie does it the most!” Mikey cackles.

“I _do not_ –!” Donnie splutters, “ _you’re_ the one who practically mainlines it! You think I don’t see your browsing history?”

“Invasion of privacy, dude!” Mikey accuses, though his tone is still light.

“I have to go through it all the time to figure out how to get rid of whatever virus you’ve downloaded that week!” Donnie snaps, “at least _I_ know which ones are safe to download!”

“So he admits it!” Mikey says, and Donnie puts his head in his hands.

“You’d make a good interrogator, Mikey,” you say neutrally.

“I’m flattered you think so, Cover Girl!” Mikey replies.

“Cover Girl?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“You glow, like those girls on the magazines!” He explains, and you hum.

“We should really figure out a name for you,” Donnie sighs, “or you’ll be a victim to Mikey’s terrible nicknames for all eternity.”

“I don’t particularly mind,” you say with a smile, laughing at Mikey’s victorious _ha_! “But if you want to call me something, feel free.”

“How about you choose your own name?” Donnie offers, and you consider.

“How about you choose?” You counter, and he blinks.

“Why?” He asks.

“I mean, you saved me,” you point out, “and I also got to name your drone.”

“I hardly think that means –” he starts.

“Just throw one out,” you say, “I’ll tell you if I like it.”

He’s silent for a minute, head tilted in thought.

“How about Violet?” He offers.

“Violet?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

“Your veins,” he clarifies, “they glow violet.”

You’re silent as you consider.

“If you don’t like it it’s fine,” he adds hastily, “I just thought –”

“I like it,” you say with a smile. “Nice to meet you Donnie, I’m Violet.” He blinks, before giving you a wide grin.

“Nice to meet you Violet,” he says back.

“Nice to meet you Violet!” Mikey shouts, “thanks for remembering to include me, guys!”

“Nice to meet you Mikey,” you laugh, before giving an involuntary yawn.

“We’ll get everything else sorted out in the morning,” Donnie says, “or, well, evening, technically. We’re sort of nocturnal by necessity.”

“Alright,” you reply, before biting your lip. “Do you, um, want your staff back?” You hold it out, and he looks down at it, before shaking his head.

“You can keep it, if you want,” he says, “I have several of them.” You give him a relieved smile, but it quickly slips again, and you glance back down.

“Leo’s right, you know,” you say, before looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have rescued me on a hunch, and I think you know it.” You examine his face, tilting your head. “Why _are_ you doing this?” He’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his feet.

“You prioritized him,” Donnie says, looking back up at you, and you blink.

“What?” You ask.

“Chopper,” he clarifies, “you told him to save himself. He was just a robot, but you wanted to keep him safe, even at the cost of yourself.” You stare at him for a moment, wide-eyed.

He clears his throat after a second, before standing.

“More importantly, you’re a key part of the puzzle,” he says quickly, “Most of the data from the old lab was deleted before we could get to it, but enough was saved to know you’re their primary test subject and weren’t easily replaceable. If we’re going to figure out what they’re planning and stop them, you’re going to be an invaluable tool.”

You examine him for a moment while he shifts around, before nodding.

“I’ll do my best to help,” you say, “I overheard a few things in my time there.” You yawn again.

“Tomorrow,” he says with a smile, “oh, and use these,” he adds quickly, reaching over and handing you a pair of headphones. “They’re soundproof. Mikey snores.”

You laugh, before placing them over your ears, and Mikey’s indignant _hey!_ is lost to the silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna be honest kudos & comments keep me motivated so if you want more let me know
> 
> Reader: robots should have rights  
> Donnie: She's The One


End file.
